


The Tale of Sherlock… The Phantom

by miles_to_go_before_i_sleep



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 18:16:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miles_to_go_before_i_sleep/pseuds/miles_to_go_before_i_sleep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John came back from Afghanistan and inherited a flat in 221B Baker Street from his father, where he met the enigmatic ghost, Sherlock, and ultimately, inevitably, falling in love with him.</p>
<p>Hope you enjoy it:D</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Story Begins

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that I'm NOT a native English speaker so... Be kind to my grammatical mistakes.

It was a Saturday afternoon when the story of John Watson and the mysterious Sherlock the phantom begins.

“According to his will, your father left a flat for you in London, 221B Baker Street. As you turned 30 the week before, you now come into your trust. Mrs Hudson is your trust holder which means she holds your trust for you before you are 30. Dr. Watson, do you have any enquires about the apartment?”

Enquiries? No. John has thousands of questions in his mind.

Why his father had never mentioned about the flat? And how did his father manage to buy a flat in London with such little income? Did his mother know anything about the flat? Why was the flat entitled to him, not Harriet?

Dr John Watson, an army doctor, has returned England from Afghanistan one month before, with a bad leg and uncountable nightmares. On his thirtieth birthday, he received a call from a lawyer, saying that his father had left him an apartment.

‘That’s great’ was the first idea came to his mind. John was alarmed by how deplorable his state of finance was and left his hotel for some less expensive domicile. Now he has an apartment. A home. This is probably the most brilliant thing his father ever did for him. As hours went by after the call, John started to question about the flat, yet there are no answers to his questions.

Harriet was at first jealous (she admitted it), but then felt relieved that her brother will no longer stay in the motel.

John stared at the shops and people in the street through the tiny window of the taxi, idling and thinking about the flat, and was surprised that a light drizzle had started.

The sky went grey and gloomy, with a few strokes of yellow in it, as if sunlight was trying to escape from the prison of darkness. Soon the drizzling went firm and raindrops started hitting the taxi loudly. 

The journey is over. John is now standing in front of the ancient black gate of his new accommodation. He knocks firmly, hoping that Mrs Hudson can save him from the rain.

“Welcome, John. Ohh! How terrible the weather is! My dear, please come in. Would you like some tea? Or coffee? It’s bloody cold outside, isn’t it?”

John stepped inside the building, unaware that he has just stepped into a new world of adventures. 

And of course, Sherlock Holmes.


	2. So A Bloke Died in My Flat

“My Dear, there are things that you must understand. When you father left you the flat, he wanted me to take care of it. We were very good friends back in that time. I was utterly surprised that you have no idea of this flat! Well, I guess you are so busy studying and you rarely visit London,”

John sits comfortably on the sofa, and nodded in response to Mrs Hudson’s words. The whole living room is a mess. He could hardly pass through all the rubbish on the floor when he came in. John wonders who lived here before he came.

“A few years ago, a consulting detective, whose name is Sherlock Holmes, helped me to get rid of my husband in Florida. In return, I rented him your flat, as I lost your contact when you were in Afghanistan. He’s a very good man, and I thought you wouldn’t care, my dear. He really is a decent bloke…”

The room is dark, gloomy, but cozy. Piles of magazines, paper, books scatter on the ground, covering every corner of the room and the only place that is clean is the armchair beside him. 

On the window side, there lies a skull with its hollow eyes staring at the visitor.

He tries to calm himself with a sip of tea. Though he is familiar with skulls, bodies and body parts, he still shudders with the thought of living with a skull.

“I’m okay with it. I mean, sharing the flat with him. By the way, where is he?”

“My dear John, I only wish I can introduce Sherlock to you. He died two years ago…” John can tell the deep sorrow on her face so he waited in silence for her to continue the story of this consulting detective.

“He died right over there, on that armchair. That’s his favourite piece of furniture in the room.”

Figured, John thought to himself. Judging by the state of the armchair, it is perhaps the most tolerable place in the room. 

“How did he die?” John bit his tongue after asking the question. Mrs Hudson took a deep breath before she gains the courage to tell his dying cause.

“He died of a heart attack after overdosing the amount of cocaine,” 

Great. This is even better. A bloke died in his flat. Due to cocaine intoxification.

Father really should have left the flat to Harriet, John thought silently to himself.

A shiver came down to his spine. John thinks he saw a shimmering figure a second ago next to Mrs Hudson, but is soon carried away by her comments on the flat.


	3. How do you feel about the violin?

One hour later, Mrs Hudson left him alone in the flat so that he could straighten things up a bit. 

John frowned at the piles of paper. Oh God, please save him from these piles of rubbish.

Just as he was going to pick up “1000 Types of Poisonous Mushrooms”, he saw the shimmering figure again.

It looked like a human being in a purple shirt and black trousers, holding something like a test tube in the kitchen. It must be quite tall when it was alive, John thought to himself. 

John frowned more deeply when the ghost disappeared into the thin air.

Not that he wants to have or keep a ghost at his flat but he is rather intrigued by it. Was it the consulting detective? The man who died in his flat? Or was it something else?

The grey curtains were thick, and there were few lamps in the room, which made the room creepier than ever to John, especially after being told that someone died in his flat two years ago. It was so quiet that John could hear the clock ticking on the wall. 

With the aid of dim light from the wooden lamp behind him, John cleared a pathway for himself and decided to rest on the sofa for a while.

Those papers, books, whatever they call them, are not rubbish. Instead, John found himself quite occupied by them.There were books about acids, toxins, cocaine, drugs, chemistry and all kinds of amazing stuff that John thought no one in London would read them but Sherlock Holmes.

He also discovered experiment reports covered by dust lying on the floor. John deliberately picked up one and started reading.

It is an experiment report about cocaine, consisting graphs, analysis, applications on crimes and the writer’s own comments. The report itself was made of the writer's passion as well as accuracy and preciseness of the experiment. Though he hates drugs and alcohol, he couldn't help but say his comment out loud. 

“Brilliant,”

And there comes the voice. 

It was a baritone, deep and rich.

“You really think so?”

John was startled by the voice. He was tensed up and searched for the voice. John almost thought he was back in Afghanistan, searching for some unknown enemy in the dark.

“I’m here,” The tone came behind the kitchen bench, along with the same shimmering figure. This time it stops shimmering and stays still for John to see him.

John has never seen a man, with such dark curly hair, and a face so pale that it glows quietly in the dark. In that split second John was sure that his heart skipped a beat. For he has never seen a man, so elegant, and dangerous at the same time. His pale grey eyes were glimmering with interest and curiosity like a cat.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John opened his mouth and heard himself replying the ghost “Afghanistan,”

“How do you feel about the violin?”


	4. A triple homicide

“How do you feel about the violin?”

The ghost visualized himself into a 3-D figure, which seems more human, more realistic to John. It swiftly passed through the kitchen bench and stood in front of John. 

“Sorry?” 

“I sometimes play the violin at three in the morning. It helps me to think about the cases. Ah, I believe that it’s better for me to confess to you since we are going to be flat mates,” 

The term “flat mate” struck John. 

“Wait. You mean… You and me are going to share a flat?” John almost wanted to shout at the ghost. This is his flat. Not his.

“Obviously,” The ghost said haughtily to him, as if it would be an honor for John to share the flat with him.

“And of course, I’d pay you the rent,” John sighed at his words. He is okay with sharing the flat with people. 

The idea of sharing his lately inherited flat with a spirit sounds completely ridiculous but this ghost looked so different from those creepy ones in movies. Maybe it’s not too bad for him. At least John doesn’t have to worry much about a ghost, does he?

And hopefully a ghost won’t cause him much trouble 

“What do you have to confess?”

John thought about that, and he replied him “No,”

The ghost answered him with a smile. God, now he’s dramatic and sexy, thought John silently. 

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes. Afternoon,”

***

John often sees Sherlock in the flat. Two weeks after their agreement on the flat sharing business, John becomes more acquainted with his flatmate. 

When he’s in a good mood, he’d talk to John about the cases he solved, or simply state what he has deduced from John from the moment he fixed his eyes upon him. The deductions are always fascinating to John, and the short-lived smiles on Sherlock's face as an acceptance to John's compliments are always warm and friendly. It took only two weeks for John to feel like he had known this man for centuries.

Sometimes Sherlock just sit on his armchair idly doing nothing, or conduct experiments on the kitchen bench silently. 

Whenever Mrs Hudson enters the flat, Sherlock will vanish from his sight. It seems to John that Sherlock will only communicate with him until one morning, he finds Sherlock texting someone on his phone. 

About an hour later, John couldn't bear it any more. The scene of Sherlock lying on the sofa, texting to someone alive(or dead?), and the constant buzzing of the phone almost drove John mad. 

The questions in his mind are like a long, cruel and disturbing tickling in the back of his head. He just couldn't stand his curiosity any more so he decided to ask Sherlock directly.

"Whom are you texting to?"

Before John has the time to regret what he had asked, Sherlock jumped up from the sofa and bounced in the flat til he reached John’s arms and shouted “It’s Christmas! A triple homicide! It's fantastic!”


	5. All he needed was a plastic bag

“John, I need a black plastic bag. Those Mrs Hudson kept in the kitchen will do. By the way, we have a visitor,”

After the bouncing and jumping, Sherlock simply asked John to get him a plastic bag. He found one in the kitchen effortlessly, while Sherlock was still clinging to his phone like it was the only thing that could save him from boredom and idleness of living.

Just as John was about to ask Sherlock how a plastic bag was linked to his unusual enthusiasm for the triple homicide and who was going to visit them, a man stepped into their living room along with Mrs Hudson.

Mrs Hudson was so happy to see Sherlock that John saw the tears in her eyes. Her attempt to hug Sherlock failed as he only nodded at her and stepped a bit closer to John.

The man who came in with Mrs Hudson was about forty years old judging by his countenance tough his grey hair made him look older than he should be. He was tall, only about an inch shorter than Sherlock. 

After Sherlock and Mrs Hudson’s brief reunion, the man cleared his throat and introduced himself to John. His name was Gregory Lestrade and he clearly was the one whom Sherlock was texting to, as he’s a detective inspector from Scotland Yard.

Soon Sherlock became impatient about everyone’s concern about him. He asked John to stuff him into the black plastic bag he held and take him to the crime scene.

Lestrade sighed and mumbled something like “Sally is so not going to like it” while Mrs Hudson smiled at Sherlock encouragingly and Sherlock huffed at Lestrade.

Then John found that he’s the only one who seemed abnormal in the flat. 

No one in the flat seemed to care how preposterous it was to bring a ghost, or a dead consulting detective to the crime scene which obviously was occupied by living polices and sergeants from the Scotland yard. 

“John, just put me in that bloody bag,” Sherlock commanded.

“Just do it, my dear, it’s been years that Sherlock went out with somebody,” Mrs Hudson said cheerfully.

“Yeah, he can slide into your bag. You know, he needs a friend, or colleague, or whatever, to do some leg work for him and protect him from the lights. It’s a pity that he can’t stand the sunshine or any strong light,” said Lestrade.


	6. In the cab

“John, I’d explain it to you in the cab,” groaned Sherlock in annoyance. Mrs Hudson and Lestrade both stared at him in disbelief as if Sherlock agreed to stop conducting experiments for a week.

“Alright. Now how do we place you in the bag?”

This might be the most absurd thing that John has ever done in his life but seriously, he’s now living with a ghost, which is surreal for most human beings except for Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. 

And Sherlock.

It was easy. All he needed to do was to open the bag and Sherlock just vanished in that bag. 

John stared at the bag in disbelief until he heard Sherlock’s voice in it.

“John, close the bag now. I’m fine,”

Lestrade gestured at John to follow him downstairs. 

Though the bag was as light as a feather, John could feel the weight of Sherlock in the bag. The thought of him holding Sherlock, his only friend and flat mate since his return from Afghanistan, to some bloody triple homicide crime scene made the bag a thousand times heavier than it should be.

***

Finally they got on the cab. 

The cabbie frowned at John like he’s some psychopath just escaped from the institute when he saw the garbage bag. 

He frowned even harder when he heard the garbage bag ordering him to take both of them to Giltspur Street.

John took a deep breath and said “That’s my phone. It, uh… dropped into this bag. Accidentally.”

He really wanted to snap at the cabbie and tell him that there's no law prohibiting ghosts to take a taxi. And he really should have insisted on taking it with Lestrade so at least he'd be talking to a palpable human being.

The cabbie shrugged and headed towards the crime scene, obviously ignoring John and Sherlock so John decided to continue speaking to his “phone”.

“Sherlock, are you there?”

Sherlock produced some muffled sounds inside the bag and John took that as a “yes”.

“Sherlock, you said that you’d explain it to me in the cab,”

He held his breath for a couple of seconds until Sherlock's low voice rang in his ears.

“I was dead two years ago. Then I became a ghost and I knew how to make myself visible to mortals. I can communicate with other ghosts but most of them are imbeciles. Most of them can’t even speak for themselves. One day Lestrade saw me in the flat so I continued solving cases because the whole Scotland Yard is consisted of idiotic morons,”

John tried to comprehend what Sherlock had said to him. It was hard even if this wasn’t the first time for him to learn that supernatural events do occur in the reality. 

It was the first time for him to feel heartily sorry for Sherlock’s death. He wanted to touch him, to see him, or to speak with him in the cab so badly that he felt his hand kept slightly trembling.


	7. The Black Car

Sherlock finished deducing the the homicide in no more than 1 minute and John made comments such as "brilliant" and "fantastic" on his deductions like what he did in the flat.

John was sure that Sherlock had made quite a lot of enemies while he was alive as there was a woman called Sally Donovan jeering at his presence and mocking his deductions.

And of course, Sherlock told her to shut up because her malicious speech was lowering the IQ of the whole London which John felt grateful for that because the sergeant was beyond annoying.

But Lestrade did took Sergeant Donovan’s advise on questioning Sherlock where was that stained suitcase of the murderer which left “obvious” marks on the floor.

Again Sherlock sighed melodramatically at all of the living imbeciles at the crime scene and traced the suitcase’s marks back to an unknown dark alley where John completely lost himself in there. 

The alley was dark, grimy and the place reminded John of the dark valleys in Afghanistan where violent deaths and bomb explosions took place almost everyday.

He called Sherlock twice before he walked out of that place. He couldn’t see Sherlock in the dark so he thought it would be best to ask for some help from Lestrade. Unfortunately on the way back to the crime scene he met Donovan again and started another unpleasant conversation with her.

“He’s gone, is he? He always does that. He seldom comes in person, he probably wants to show off his new boyfriend, that geek,”

John noticed Anderson stood by Donovan’s side, their hands slightly touching together. He was struck speechless at Donovan’s term “boyfriend” while Anderson gave him one of those pitying looks you get when you are laying half-dead in the hospital. 

“What? No. We’re not in a relationship. And he’s not a geek,”

Both of them simply ignored his protest and smirked. 

Insufferable gits.

John recalled Sherlock’s comments on them and agreed with him whole-heartedly but he simply nodded at them and left the crime scene.

***

It took a few minutes for John to realize someone or something was following him. 

He was being watched.

He could sense it. His instincts could tell. He had this feeling back in Afghanistan, and a few times here in London.

At first John thought it was Sherlock. He got this kind of feeling before in the flat when Sherlock wished to announce his presence melodramatically. He would first disguise himself in the dark and then suddenly show up on the sofa, sitting right next to John.

As he strode along the street, the payphones near him kept ringing. 

Sherlock never called anyone and John doubted if his voice could be transmitted through the wires. Anyways Sherlock disliked contacting people, nor speaking to them so the mysterious “big brother” mustn’t be Sherlock. 

John would be glad for his (hopefully correct) deductions under normal circumstances but he was now being watched and he wasn’t sure if it was a human or another ghost.

He thought about texting Sherlock for a split second until the mysterious, posh black car stopped beside him.

Since he was practically cornered by the black car, he deliberately got on the car when the lady inside gestured him to do so.


End file.
